“No, sir.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“A good many have come and gone—people living in the block; but none that I could spot as on this business.”
Together they withdrew into deeper gloom again, and in dead silence waited and watched. Not for long.
Another tram clanked westward, halted, went on, and a minute later footsteps approached—heavy, weary, dragging footsteps; and the figures of two men passed into the radius of light from the street lamp nearest the watchers.
“That’s the Signor—the fat one,” Snell’s subordinate whispered. “The other’s the Russian.”
“Come on,” said Snell, and silently they followed the two men, overtaking them as Cacciola was inserting a latchkey into the outer door of the block where he lived.
He turned with a start as Snell courteously accosted him.
“Signor Cacciola? I have been waiting your return, and must have a few words with you to-night concerning the late Lady Rawson. If you will look at my card you will know who I am and that my business is urgent.”